


Une araignée au plafond

by Pipolyte



Category: Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: ...sort of, Asexual Character, Creepy concept, Identity Reveal, LOTS of spiders you have been warned, Mention of Cannibalism, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Morally Ambiguous Peter Parker, Multi, Spiders, Tailor Peter, all of his spiders are named after french comics animals because i'm a nerd, domestic fic, everyone is underwhelmed, peter not being impressed by the avengers, peter parker as a mother figure for a whole clutter of spiders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 17:51:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12799311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pipolyte/pseuds/Pipolyte
Summary: “You're not fine, you're cracked in the head. Literally,” Stark snapped. “For how many years have you been Spider-Man, six? I won't even discuss the ethics of what you do. You're twenty-two, Parker.”“I'm much older in spider years.”In which Spider-Man lurks and terrorizes criminals into abiding the law, except that he is a broke millenial living with his dozens ofchildrenspiders.





	Une araignée au plafond

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone,  
> This is a work from at least two years ago, that I forgot to post because I pushed it aside, not realizing that it was ready to be posted.  
> Is all the science right? I don't remember! Probably not! Who cares, comics science doesn't make sense anyway.  
> All spider species exist, though, you can look them up. Some are prettier than others, fair warning.  
> In this story, Peter is implicitly asexual, possibly because of The Bite. He will use more reason than attraction to choose his partners.  
> "avoir une araignée au plafond", or "to have a spider on the ceiling" is a french saying, used to mean that someone is not quite right in the head. It's not really about mental illness, more like"how do you think????? i can't follow your thought process"  
> Have a good read!

Peter Parker was a bashful, slightly clumsy young man with a big heart that gifted him all too many pets. Spider-Man lurked in the darkness, attacked thugs with lightening strikes, both in speed and damage induced, before crawling back to his rightful place.

Peter Parker kept a full needle in his pockets when he went out at night; Spider-Man quietly stabbed cadavers with it later on.

“Stay in the light”, the hiss every individual who crossed Spider-Man heard, was the final straw. Hell's Kitchen had his own vigilante feared for the tortures he inflicted on bodies, yet neither Dardevil who never kill or the Punisher who always did inspired quite as much sheer terror.

If he catches you, you'd better leave the city or quit, they muttered between themselves as they would of the Kingpin, because if he gets you again, he'll make you disappear, or worse.

Peter prided himself in having done the grossest things to prevent murder – never had his hands taken a life. Although one day it might be unavoidable, he's happy with his current methods. The Avengers weren't.

That being said, they could hardly be blamed for it. The vigilante was more spider than man, for all they knew, creeping on his preys before leaving them an inch from bleeding out. The rumor of cannibalism was also no small matter in any way. Not that they rather sanctioned someone like Castle, though Murdock and him were at least transparent (sort of) with them, open (sort of) to a collaboration need it be.

“Vigilante? Oh no,” Spider-Man was once caught on camera laughing. “I only look for meat, boys, and feeding on the leech of humanity makes me more sympathetic to people.”

Both statements seemed to be true enough. Calling him a vigilante was a huge euphemism. Moreover, if no footage proved he really did consume the criminals' flesh, enough bodies were found with their insides melted or their bellies slashed and empty for that theory to be a serious assumption.

Of all this, Peter Parker and Spider-Man were perfectly aware. After all, the Avengers rarely kept for themselves their opinions on problematic, stray vigilantes, in hope their influence would suffice to keep them on tracks.

Peter Parker felt no need to get back 'on tracks' though, seeing as his way included what was most probably the most unethical manipulations of corpses but no death he was the author of. Still, all of the icky stuff he did, he did for the advantage of the reputation it got Spider-Man. For that reason, he was in no particular rush to meet the Avengers, and thought it safe to assume they weren't interested either.

 

 

 

 

It was firstly the low-level awareness of the presence of people on his web. They were no danger, just writhing here and there, so he didn't snap into attention. Then, the voices. Whoever was near, they were making noise. He only heard bits, too out of it to perceive more than a few words about 'he' waking up.

The next thing was the migraine splitting his skull.

“Aww, head,” he moaned painfully.

“I like him already,” someone said with exaggerated affection.

Familiar pitch, though he didn't recognize it as it was. Another person shushed the first, anyway. There was the sound of stuff being moved around, and a third human called the Suit's name softly. Peter laid wordlessly. There was no faking sleep anymore, evidently, but he could still pretend not to have fully regained his spirits. Cardinal rule of awaking in an unknown place: don't open your eyes, gain yourself time.

His senses were invaluable, yet he had no certainty that they were impossible to fool.

“Hey Spidey. Parker. Peter?”

The last person almost had him panic, until he placed the famous inflexions. Stark.

He was with the Avengers, then. From there, he needed little concentration to pinpoint Hawkeye, Widow, Banner on his web. Vision confirmed the layer of it. Captain and Daredevil too, outside, behind a glass.

As soon as his eyes flickered open, of course, the good doctor jumped on him to ask how he felt before making an exhaustive list of his wounds. Peter zoned out – even if it was comforting for Banner to follow some kind of procedure, he didn't need it. Bruised ribs, a nasty gunshot in his tight, lacerations on his left side, road burn on the right, light head injury.

Stark waved his fingers before him. There was still no danger, no move with potential of aggressive behavior, so Peter only gave his best unimpressed glare.

“You there, kid?”

“Is this all going on SHIELD records?” he scowled at the nod that answered him. “Aw, hell.”

He looked down at his hand and flexed it, trying to see there a representation of his slow testing and pushing the limits of his mental Web. He ignored the curious huffs. No tear, so that was that. Patching up the Web was so _exhausting_ , like breathing insistently with a stuffy nose until it wasn't forced. Less figuratively speaking, he wasn't concussed, his Web of awareness covered the whole layout without any gaps.

“I'm fine,” he made a gross assumption for the Avengers' sake. “I'll curl up nice and all in my nest for forty-eight hours, let my bones and skin knit back in one piece.”

Hawkeye crooked an eyebrow like he knew Peter's speaking from experience.

“You're not fine, you're cracked in the head. Literally,” Stark snapped. “For how many years have you been Spider-Man, six? I won't even discuss the ethics of what you do. You're twenty-two, Parker.”

“I'm much older in spider years.”

The quip didn't seem to amuse Banner or Stark much, though Hawkeye seemed definitely entertained – and by the absence of annoyance on the Window's face, he could guess she found it at least a little funny.

“Seriously,” Peter stressed out. “Sorry, but you're four years late. You could have done something when I was sixteen, I guess. Now...”

He shrugged.

 

 

 

 

“Anyway. I assume you took my phone?”

Wordlessly, the Widow gave him back the engine. Considering how Stark was with his technology, Peter only had a two-second long internal debate before using the burner to send a brief message telling 'W' he was alright. Em Jay replied with little gentleness, obviously pissed off he had taken so much time to inform her he wasn't dying in a back alley.

Again, he waited for the doctor's permission before getting up. They all looked a little surprised when he asked for clean clothes, though a change was bought to him without questions. Both the sweater and the pants were at least two sizes too big, which made them perfect. He let out a pleased sigh as he finally got out of the skin tight Suit – that he enveloped in webs. The next best thing was crouching down into a more comfortable position.

...And that's when he took a large view of the place and noticed the face Murdock (still in Suit) was making on the other side of that window.

Peter knew perfectly well what was going on in that red-head of his. Something like five years ago, Matt had taken him in one night they had worked together. He had met Claire, and had pretended to be older than he really had been. Back then, he hadn't seen anything surprising to have his easy fib bought up. However, with the knowledge he had to this day of Matt's senses, he could guess how he escaped the lie detector.

The Bite had taken the remnant childhood from his body, gifting him with coiled muscles, solid wholly developed bones, and never the less, a still-till-war heart. This was one side of his abilities he rarely expended himself on, mostly for its natural feeling – he usually didn't even do it consciously – but he did have a spidery heart. He controlled the speed of its beating, calm until he needed a sudden spike to support the burst of action in his limbs. It was invaluable to keep his cool when most lost it.

“You told me you were twenty,” Murdock gritted expectedly as soon as Peter left the infirmary's room.

He shrugged. He did a lot of that lately, and felt like doing it even more. A shrug for every terrible expectation turned on him.

“I lied.”

 

 

 

 

Stark took off swiftly once Peter made sure he was welcomed in the Tower for a few days, along with Romanoff, Rogers and Murdock. Apparently he was much more interesting unconscious. Or maybe it was that he assured them it was all an act, that he didn't eat other people (he left off the part where he technically could). Stark did try to assign him a guest room, until Peter explained he'd rather stay in a corner of the common quarters.

Banner tapped softly what they passed as they walked.

“By the way, Peter- Sorry, Parker,” Barton amended at him scoffing. “There was a... a funny spider on you. I mean, a real spider.”

Peter stopped dead on his tracks. It startled them. He had an instant to reflect on how weird they were, taken aback by everything with him, most of all when he was normal. Like they were living in two different worlds and weren't two sorts of perfectly functional people. Adults. Grown-ups.

His mind whipped back on topic. Spider. On him. A soft 'no' of obstinate denial licked into shape from his lips. Then, an embarrassingly overly-stressed out curse.

"Alright," he spoke quietly, teeth gritted. "May I see it?"

“That's the thing...” Barton looked half sheepish, half unapologetic. “We kinda lost it.”

Banner amended the admission almost immediately. “It escaped from its container.”

Peter sighed. He didn't ask for permission before putting his back to a wall and go up. Trying to locate something on the Web wasn't as tedious as repairing it. To be truthful, it was relatively easy, if not quick. He had no certainty his Web extended long enough, though, since his range didn't cover the whole Tower.

He shouldn't have worried: it was still in the common quarters. Barton seemed immensely relieved at the information. Peter kept himself from snickering or making a smart commentary.

As soon as they pushed the door to their destination, he took a deep breath in preparation for a loud yell.

“IDÉFIX!”

The shout resulting in nothing – the spider not getting out of its hide – he tried again under Barton's doubtful eye.

“MATHURINE? RANTANPLAN?”

Results were impressively null.

“Caius Brutus?”

He heard the soft jangling of its legs before he saw the small figure trot to him, leaving behind a piece of furniture. Peter let himself fall in a natural crouch, from which he reached out so that CB could scamper on his arm.

“Look at you,” he crooned. “It's a big scary place, isn't it? I know, baby, I know. You're alright, CB. Safe and sound. But you know what could have happened? You not being safe and sound. I talked about this a hundred times with your brothers and sisters. What is the rule?”

CB made the saddest click ever to spider, which didn't impress Peter much.

“That's right, you do not follow daddy when he's the Suit. You do not jump on the Suit. The Suit meets bad people, people who kill for fun. And normal humans kill spiders out of fear. Humans like to squash little spiders. Or spray them with toxin. Or tear off their legs. Or drown them.”

He stroke on of CB's limbs as it fondled his nose.

“Now, I won't let them, baby. Still, you have to be prudent, okay? Next time you won't be so lucky and I'll have to tell your family you died with all of your organs hanging.”

Barton stared, curiosity obvious on his face.

“Dude, is that really your... spiderling?”

Peter offered a glare back, doing the 'what the fuck are you thinking you weirdo' eye.

“No...” he had a tiny smile, between disbelief and pity. “No. I got them to experiment on and got attached, so now they're pets roaming freely at home.”

"Yeah, I guess you can't help but empathize when they're talking with you."

Peter let out a startled guffaw.

“What? I don't talk with them, man. I talk to them. Like you would for dogs or cats.”

There was something to be said about Barton's expression. Needless to specify, Peter didn't know what. Something about how his speech was curiously long and detailed for pet talking, probably.

He crossed his arms, crooking an eyebrow. “Look, whatever you think, the spider venom gave me some weird powers, yeah. Birthing _Thwaitesias_ or _Phiddipus_ spiders and communicating with them are not among them.”

 

 

 

 

They allowed him to take anything he needed, so he grabbed some food (meat, pasta, a poptart box, more meat), a pencil, a few sheets. He chose his corner carefully, somewhere easily accessible for him where he or the webs wouldn't be a bother for anyone. Most of the webs he didn't create against the wall; instead he moved up there with his supplies to curl up and coat himself in white. CB crawled on his collarbone.

He could hear hazily Stark mumbling about the nest not being a joke.

 

 

 

 

At some point, someone tickled the web he had connected with the floor, with more or less force. It was morse code, composing easily the name GWEN. As Peter parted his lips to taste the air, sure enough, Gwen's perfume hang around. Leisurely, he unraveled himself from the layers enclosing his body, falling in a low posture.

“Peter,” his friend greeted, bending to kiss the top of his head.

He smiled easily. “Gwenie-bird. Good day to you.”

Absently, he noted Maximoff (the red one) staring. Gwen was wearing one of his favorite jacket, with Romuald on her shoulder. He barely had time to notice Avrelle running towards him at high speed before the _Nephila edulis_ started to climb on his leg. He gave it a butterfly kiss, letting it nuzzle on his skull.

“So. Avrelle and Romuald almost fought for the right to see you. As you can observe, I resolved the problem by taking them both. Is CB coming back with me?”

Peter hesitated before shaking his head. Gwen didn't seem overly surprised by his motherly attitude after CB placed itself in danger.

“Anyway, I got your clothes. You know what I mean,” she added with an eyeroll after he gave her a look. “The ones you wear. One of your, uh... One thermos too. And I fed your babies, by the way.”

He welcomed the thought of her gifts with relief. Since the Bite, his modified digestive system also required arachnid food, around once a day. While he was still perfectly able to eat what he was used to, he didn't digest it quite as well. Now, since you couldn't just make meat smoothies, he needed to lyse it beforehand with his enzymes so it would be liquid when he'd consume it. He had no natural way to do that, though, to his great disappointment as he discovered that his teeth did not, as a fact, harbor any venom. In consequence, he injected those meals with syringes of artificial enzymes, which he obviously didn't have on him at the Tower.

Peter took the bag she was handing out, discarded without regrets the change he was offered earlier for his own things. Gwen grinned at his lack of modesty, huffing a 'nudist'. The supplies ended up stuck to his cocoon.

She searched for his eyes. “I gotta go now. Em is asking for more of me. You owe me a nice dress.”

He agreed in a shrug. Tailoring more dresses for someone he was used to was no challenge. Besides, she was right, she had again done a lot for him. He had already a new design prepared with her in mind, in any case.

“Come on, boys,” Gwen called out, collecting Romuald and Avrelle. Avrelle made a bit of a tantrum, refusing to leave him and cram its long limbs on her. CB, in his back, entirely ignored the others.

Peter beamed, always glad to see his family's tranquil easiness with his spiders. “Thanks, Gwen.”

“Anytime, bug boy,” she saluted, hugged him goodbye. “We love you.”

He crawled back in his so-called nest (which, technically, wasn't one at all).

 

 

 

 

Voices woke him up.

The return to active consciousness let him aware of his body being at last perfectly healed up. No need for carefulness, this time – he ripped his own webs to jump down.

Four people around: Wasp, whose name he had yet to remember of, Barton, Rogers and an unknown character he recognized as Deadpool the mercenary. Of course, because the Bite hadn't made him less clumsy, he forgot about the stuff he had rolled in the cocoon, stuff that took the first chance to fall on him to the rhythm of his 'oops', 'woah' and 'aww' as he struggled to catch it.

“No!” he hissed as a single sheet flied away–

–right in the hands of Deadpool who enthusiastically went out of his way to examine the paper.

The self-designated 'merc with a mouth' turned to Peter for the sole purpose of making a mocking face at him, a question on his lips about Spider-Man drawing dresses. That presented the perfect occasion for Peter to practice his favorite exasperated eye twitch.

“Gimme that back. I need the sketch to sew the dress.”

Deadpool pivoted back to Rogers, asking rather rudely if Spider-Man was for real. Barton interjected kindly (Peter directed his foulest glare at the man) with the information of his civilian job.

“Come on, I'd really like not to have to re-draw it from memory, dude. That's not cool,” he whined.

A few feet away, Barton shrieked. The pathetic sound was soon followed by CB running back to him. Peter patted its head with a 'good boy' and a satisfied smirk.

 _Grilled_ _coffee_ _beans drink/metal sticks/dog is_ _wounded_ _like big/family spider is_ , his _Thwaitesias_ expressed _._

He had to bite his lips to retain a huff of laughter.

“ I don't know,” Deadpool's voice was unpleasant, forced high with an affected drawling on his words. “I think I'd look ravishing in that cute thing.”

Peter couldn't this time contain the howling in his mouth, not even by cladding a hand on it. Deadpool looked offended, and not in a good 'you're funny I like you' way. As much as he was sorry about it, the idea wasn't any less ridiculous.

Instead of making his pitch curt, though, Deadpool only covered the hurt and indignation with fake childishness. “I'll have you know I wear dresses like a charm.”

He smiled a little more nicely.

“I have no doubt about it, man, but the reference for this pattern was my best friend. It would be horrendously awful on you, if you only succeed to put it on to begin with. You want a nice dress, you'll have to stop by the shop so I can get your measures.”

He liked particularly how Rogers turned away, as if that actually got him off any kind of responsibility for this conversation. He was less appreciative of Deadpool's leer, disbelief quickly forgotten. If the guy liked clothes so much, he could at least respect the maker's work!

“Oh, I'm sure you'd love to measure some parts of me.”

“Outside of working hours, why not. I prefer to keep the Tight Threads a professional place, though. I'm not into needle play,” Peter deadpanned.

As awful as the name was, he never had the motivation to modify it after he acquired the store. Will, who sold it to him, had bore with him for several summers and his entire high-school senior year. After that, when Peter mentioned his concerns about not being able to pay for university, the man had offered to take him as an apprentice, which signed off his career choice.

While they had hardly been friends or even mentor and protégé, he had proved an efficient employee, his boss remain ing cold but understanding. Will had offer ed to sell his shop to him when he had moved to Florida with his family. He could have refused, except the Tight Threads had came with an established clientele, and ten percents off if he took Will's neighbor to replace himself. Knowing he needed someone behind the desk, Peter had obviously accepted Morales' candidacy.

CB interrupted, _death/blood/spices smells of breeding big/family spider_.

 _Breeding smell replies to death/blood/spices?_ he paused in order to ask worriedly.

CB had him know that he exuded weird mating pheromones, not breeding ones. Which was basically its way to announce that Peter clearly wanted a piece of that ass (not in a black widow fashion, he wasn't that kinda spider) even though he wasn't fertile. Good news altogether: since he had discovered the Bite that changed him so much was from a female specimen, he was sort of fearing waking up one day with the ability to bear eggs. It wasn't a pleasant perspective.

He gracefully offered the address of the shop to an overexcited and frankly astonished merc, considering seriously the cons of opening temporarily his bed to Deadpool. When his sanity was questioned, what with giving away his identity and contact info to a rogue mercenary, he pointed out that Rogers was only ever seen with the most respectable of their hires. He was already aware that Deadpool was trying to turn himself a new leaf, anyway.

 _Death/blood/spices is predator, no good mate for big/family spider_.

Peter whipped his head to CB, baring teeth he passed his tongue along slowly, muscles tensed up. _Choice isn't shiny/tiny/family spider to make. No advice will be taken from shiny/tiny/family spider_ , he formed in vibrations.

 

 

 

 

On his way back home, Barton texted him a concise 'thought you couldn't speak with them mh??'.

The corner of his mouth twitched. Figures that Hawkeye would be the one to recognize a sound less language. It did not matter much. They already had knowledge of his identity, he didn't care for them being aware he could communicate with his little family.

His biggest concern, for the time being, was coming home to Falbala, Raoul, Jolly Jumper, Berthold and all of the others.

'I lied :)'

'so you're their mother or???'


End file.
